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The machines are Disk machines Gramophones Uncle Josh says : “There ain’t any word,” to d< this class of machines. Very truly yours, W. E. Johnso Here follows the clipping : This is the tale of woe told by two Chicago citizens. “ If something isn’t done to silence those talking machines around our home,” said they at the police station the other day, “ we’ll simply have to move.” Both men looked red-eyed and weary. “ The tortures of living in our neighborhood are simply unbearable,” said one. “ I haven’t slept in a week,” said the other. “ These talking machines go night and day, gurgling and wheezing speeches, rag-time songs and brass band blares. There is a saloon next door to us. Fifty times a day the talking machine in that places delivers a speech on the money question. It sings every tune, from * Mr. Johnson Turn Me Loose,’ to ‘A Bird in a Gilded Cage,’ especially that infernal ‘ Ain’t it a Shame.’ I toss in my bed to patriotic airs, selections from grand operas and imitations of a band of crazy people. Every night I retire to the lively strains of ‘ Who Done Spent Ma’ Quarter ?’ * I Eat My Meals in Jig Time and Walk Around in Rag Time.’ The whole air is constantly full of the unholy sounds. “ At night it seems as though my bed had caught the infection and wanted to two-step. I have dreams of the chairs dancingly wildly around my apartment and visions of brass bands of many pieces perched upon the footboard of my couch playing their very hardest are frequent.”